


An Arrow

by SkyHighDisco



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Allegory, Drama, Gen, Hala Madrid, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Luka is all heart, Real Madrid can't win, Real Madrid drama, Repression, Varane is a precious child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyHighDisco/pseuds/SkyHighDisco
Summary: "What if we are an arrow?"Real Madrid's current state through Modrić and Varane's conversation.





	An Arrow

The locker room didn't feel all that different than post-Elche, and that dark, traitorous part of him felt sweet pleasure on this spontaneous karma to his Spanish colleagues here, in Moscow. But it only lasted a pinch. Now they were in this together. The nobody-saying-a-word part remained the same. Isn't that a real curse, to re-live the same thing twice? I went to hell and back, but hell found me and called me back in again. Put that on your t-shirt...

First Isco, out of the blue, without even willingly being able to calculate how long his recovery time will be and being forced to rest until it's over. It's hard to imagine the helplessness and frustration the midfielder must feel yelling at the unpenetrable screen back at home. It would be no wonder if he'd stop watching altogether after this.

Then Marcelo and Bale in one game, and Ramos in the other. And now Carvajal's calf. Luka Modrić wasn't superstitious, but it really almost looked like someone up there wanted to punish them for a four-years-in-a-row success. If all pep talks and hopes were left aside, if he looked at the matter realistically, it didn't look like there would be the fifth one this year. Ronaldo didn't have as much to do with it as Zidane did.

That story again...

Marcelo was the last to leave. Or so he thought before he turned around and spotted Varane leaning his head against the wall on the other side of the room. The defender didn't only look gloomy. He had this droop of additional weight in his bearing that made the following words completely valid and unsurprising:

„It's my fault."

Was it because of this unpremeditated fraternal interconnection among the Real Madrid players or the irrevocable contrition in the Frenchman's voice, Luka felt a heavy lead-like weight sink to the bottom of his stomach and pull everything else along, taunting him to stoop into a defeated slouch as well. Instead, the iron-willed Croatian could only shiver. _No. Not him. Not this sweet, hardworking boy, just not him!_

„Raphaël, it's completely meaningless to self-criticize right now. It wasn't your fault. Toni's ball just slipped. It happens to everyone."

„No... I should've been faster. I should've seen where it went. And then Vlašić went...- -", the young man shook his head, refusing to let his voice tremble, when it was on its merry way to do so.

And Modrić was already by his side. ˮStop." He gripped his arm and leaned his forehead against it; he couldn't reach the defender's shoulder for his absurd height, or an absurd stumpy built of his own, but his strong grip was felt very much so. ˮBlaming yourself isn't going to help anyone, and you know it. You're too smart for that, Raphaël. You are a great defender, and if you weren't, you wouldn't get _World XI_ award. It's not only formality, it's recognition. One whose proof you don't need because we know you belong there, and that is all you need. Please. _Please_ , don't make me give you an earful because you don't need one.

Hope is not lost as long as there is _one_ man left having it. And if I have to be that one for the entire team, flip it, I'll be the one. But we can't lose hope. This isn't the first time this has been happening, regardless of Zizou's absence. We'll get back up, eh? Just don't lose hope, Rapha, alright? Can you do that for me? You are tough, you are a strong person, I need you by my side when everybody else is downed. Please."

The Frenchman didn't move, but he gripped the back of Luka's shirt in comprehension and something that felt like promise. After a few moments in a complete mutual silence, Luka reached up to give Raphaël's shoulder two final firm pats before walking over to his spot to get the rest of the stuff in the bag. Hearing the clothes and boots and shuffling bags was a tremendous audible relief in contrast; he thought he'd go mad in this general quietness which wasn't polite at all. It was starting to get more and more unbearable with every game. Luka was too selfless, however, to leave first because he felt bad. Everyone felt bad. He just wanted to stay behind for anyone who felt worse.

Unbeknownst to his notice, while he was brainstorming himself to oblivion, Varane's head lifted and he stared forward. Anyone paying attention would hear gears in his head give a start with a squeak.

„What if we are an arrow?"

The Croatian paused his actions and looked over, a frown twisting his forehead. ˮWhat?"

„An arrow", Raphaël repeated, like the midfielder hadn't heard him right. Luka squinted.

Like an agitated college student hurrying to explain an awkwardly delivered answer, the Frenchman lifted his arms and turned to Modrić holding an imaginary bow and arrow aimed at him. He theatrically squinted on one eye. ˮWhat if we are being drawn back this whole while... only to get launched forward", he opened the fingers of his right hand. _Release..._ ˮto something great."

It was a short, simple metaphor, not even in the necessity to have itself explained. But at the same time, it was so powerful that it had the midfielder's chest filled with something warm and seething and orange and he had his shoulders straightened by the unconsciousness before he realized what it was. It was mutual force. Doubled strength. His own engine boosted to life just like that, by a mere simple metaphor.

And for once, Luka realized he truly wasn't alone in this.

He gave a knowing, crooked smile. ˮSee?" he pointed the only free finger of his dominant hand at the defender; the rest of them were gripping the boots. ˮ _This_ is why I need you."

When Raphaël was left on his own, released of all the horrible, awkward tension of other human beings occupying the room, despite feeling like grey trash not unlike everybody else, his lip twitched to the smallest hint of a smile.

  
  


They played again.

They lost again.

In the tightest of the ends, García's ball found the net, and Ramos must've felt it most of all. What a karma does it have to be to get stabbed in the back in the same fashion the defender has performed twice before to ensure the pass to extra time or victory? It would surely stick with him longer than the rest of them. Twisted are the paths of life.

Sitting on his own, now completely alone in a dead locker room (and for how uncomfortably silent it was before, filled with mute accusations and palpable frustration, this was a tremendous relief), Luka pondered on his rightful spot, fingers drumming on his mouth. If he was going to trust Varane's earlier judgment, then the math was simple.

The international break is coming.

The transfer window is at the door.

The arrow is still pulling back.

So, once it is finally released, the trajectory should be spectacular.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I could write an essay like Ronaldo's sister did when Luka Modrić won UEFA Best Man's Player award, but I won't go that low. Y'all don't lose your spirits if you claim to be Madridistas. If you keep crushing them with mean comments and criticism (and frankly, where is the use in that), what are they supposed to lean onto to get back up? Stop being dumb pussies with no brain and all mouth and man the fuck up. We gotta be there for them in defeat as much as victory because as loyal fans, that's our duty. 
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
